


perfect world

by lovages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovages/pseuds/lovages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s too-smart-for-his-own-good kid brother is on an anti-war crusade. So he accompanies Sam to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where United States-backed Vietnamese troops have invaded the country. It’s not as bad as Vietnam (yet), but it’s still war. In the midst of all this, Dean forges a new friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1973

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and based heavily on The Killing Fields. Though I tried to research it, apologies in advance for factual innacuracies, distortions et cetera. (Format follows the events of one day from each year.)

Touchdown in Cambodia is not what Dean expects it to be. The chopper’s blades whip a tepid, dusty wind that slams into him once the door goes down. The air is muggy with humidity and it plasters his shirt to his front. Beside him, Sam staggers onto the grassy earth and together they struggle to push away from the nonexistent tarmac of the landing pad and into… wilderness.

It’s like nothing Dean’s ever seen before and it’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Dean opens his mouth, tries to say something, but he’s speechless. The foreignness of the world presses down around him and steals the words out of his mouth and mind. Sam’s faring no better, gaping at their surroundings, jostled forward by the rest of the company, who, as it happens, are the United States air force.

“Winchester,” calls someone and Dean snaps to attention. It’s Benny, one of the officers who’d accompanied them. He hands them their duffles. “You’re on the first convoy. It’ll take you to the French embassy. That’s where the rest of the press are.”

“Great,” Dean smiles. Sweat gathers in every crease of skin, rolling down his temples and back. “Thanks, man.”

“It was good meeting you, brother,” Benny says with a broad smile. When he opens his arms for an embrace, Dean goes to squeeze him back. “Try to be safe. I owe you a beer and you better be alive to collect.”

“We’re out on the next flight,” Dean promises.

Sam bristles and holds a hand out to shake instead. “See you around, Benny.”

Dean tries not to roll his eyes and fails. To Benny’s credit, he doesn’t smirk, but his eyes grow softer. Sam’s blanket disdain for the military has Dean feeling irritable. Sam’s snapping at the very people offering them the veneer of security in the middle of an active war zone. Dean had already made the argument on the flight to Bangkok, but it doesn’t look like the message took.

Army or not, Benny’s a good man. Sometimes people make choices. Benny is simply sticking to his and Dean can appreciate that kind of perseverance.

Whatever. Two weeks. Sam can take his stupid pictures and they’ll be on the flight to Thailand en route to peaceful United States.

 

 

Day one at the embassy was uneventful. Sam met and hit it off with a duo from the BBC; a sharp, beautiful woman named Bela Talbot and her silver-haired (and tongued) photographer, Balthazar Adler. By the time everyone settled down for dinner, resplendent with lukewarm bottles of champagne and strangely impeccable créme caramels, they’re joined by another american photographer, Ash Harvelle.

Sam’s deep in conversation about the politics of it all and the jetlag hits Dean like a weird high. He feels water-logged, like his brain is itching to waft out of his ears if he doesn’t fall into bed. The sun hasn’t yet set, so he stands up and walks around a bit.

The balcony overlooks the embassy grounds and the roads beyond. It’s been boarded up hastily, but the gentle breeze sluices through the slats like so many sighs. A man leans against the parapet, peering through the gaps, nursing a dark drink. He’s browner than most of the rest of the company, though fairer than the Cambodians. Though he’s tall (probably a few inches shy of Dean’s height), he’s just this side of gaunt to seem fit. Dean walks over.

“Great view,” he quips when he’s within earshot. The man’s head whips around, sombre blue eyes fixing Dean with a hard stare. Dean feels stupid immediately.

“Surely somewhere peaceful in the world, it’s a beautiful sunset,” the man replies evenly, not sounding quite as easily accepting, but not entirely hostile either. His voice is coarser than the stubble sanding his fine jaw. “Castiel Milton.”

Dean clears his throat. “Sorry, I, uh. I’m not used to any of this. Shouldn’t have said that. Dean Winchester. I’m here with my brother Sam. We’re with the New York Times.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel says, nodding in consideration. “I hope you get your story.”

“You from a Washington paper?” Dean guesses.

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m with the embassy.”

“Oh.” Dean returns to his glass of champagne, trying to think of something to say to that. French. Castiel doesn’t sound French. He sounds american. Dean also realizes just how insensitive his opening statement had been. Now that he knows Castiel has probably been here the longest and has the most to lose. He half expects the man to walk away, but instead Castiel breaks the awkward silence first.

“I know a good man who could help you find stories out there and file your copies,” he says. There’s an undercurrent of severity that lends the request a tightly wound desperation. “If you can guarantee his mother safe passage to the States, he will be invaluable.”

Dean stares for a moment, taken aback. The wind caresses the tangled mess of dark hair from Castiel’s forehead back. Even in the dimming glow of twilight, Dean can see the sheen of sweat drying above Castiel’s pinched brows. He’s handsome in a way that catches the beholder off-guard. The tropical air gives his sun-loved skin an almost oily glint that softens the peaks of his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. Despite the lines of fatigue around his mouth and the concaves of his slightly sunken cheeks, his eyes are bright, piercing and intelligent.

“I don’t know if we can do that,” Dean says, feeling helpless. He’s suddenly wide awake and past exhausted. He could try to get word out to Benny and see if anything can be done about it, but he’s afraid to mention it or make promises he can’t deliver on. He ends up saying as much. “I really can’t promise anything.”

Castiel gives him a searching look. Dean finds himself responding to the scrutiny with as much honesty as he can muster without quite knowing why. Finally, Castiel nods minutely, breaking their staring match to drain the rest of his drink.

“I’ll introduce you tomorrow,” Castiel says, turning away, but not before tossing over his shoulder a parting, “Goodnight, Dean.”

 

 

Back in the room he’s sharing with Sam, Dean relays his chance meeting. Sam is immediately on edge.

“I don’t like it,” he says from the floor, sorting quickly through his half dismantled camera and rolls of film. Dean passes his bag for Sam to go over and ready for tomorrow. “If he’s with the embassy, why is he coming to us for help?”

Dean shrugs, running a hand over his face. The sun has gone down and he’s mere blinks away from unconsciousness. The only thing keeping him awake is the unfamiliar edge to the air, halfway between a fragrance and a feeling under his skin.

“Beats me, Sammy,” he says heavily. “Sleep on it and see where the morning takes us?”

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dean. We’re moving to a hotel that might be bombed tomorrow,” Sam argues, packing away his camera and getting started on Dean’s. “We’re at the mercy of the embassy and the air base. And if shit really hits the fan, then the actual Khmer Rouge itself and I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Relax,” Dean intones, because Sam’s putting him on edge again. His nerves have already been up against the wire for the past forty-eight what with the flight and chopper. “We’ll just say no. It’s not like we know if we can get a word out to Benny. Or if he’ll even be able to help us.”

Sam turns to fix him with a disbelieving look. “What the hell did he say to you? What’s got you so convinced to help him?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dean grimaces, too tired to really be embarrassed by Sam’s accusatory tone. “Something about him just. He seemed trustworthy.”

“Dean, I don’t think you understand that we could really die here,” Sam says, half severe, half pleading and yeah okay.

Jess had opted to stay back and Dean doesn’t know if Sam had begged her into it or if it had been her call after all (though Dean would bet money on the former). Still, Sam was engaged to her. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And Dean would be damned if he was going to let his kid brother die in some godforsaken green hell.

“We’ll just say no,” Dean repeats, sighing heavily. “Fine, look. Seriously. Drop it. I’m running on fumes here.”

Miracle of miracles, Sam drops it and they’re both asleep in minutes.

 

 

They’re packed and ready to go before breakfast next morning. But Castiel takes matters out of their hands when he shows up with a young Cambodian boy who looks barely a day over seventeen, if that.

Dean feels Sam tense beside him. One look at Sam over their watery eggs and stale toast and rank coffee tells Dean that this is going to be trouble. Sam’s not going to be able to say no. If he’s being honest, Dean’s not sure he’ll be able to either.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel waits politely for them to extend an invitation to sit down and then he introduces the boy. “This is Kevin Tran. Kevin, this is Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam Winchester. They’re with New York Times. Dean, Kevin was an interpreter for the Reuters journalists so he knows his way around.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but there has been an incident.” Kevin says, wasting no time on pleasantries. His accent is mild but noticeable. “Neak Leung has been bombed. American B-52.”

Sam straightens in his seat. It appears to be news to Castiel as well. Dean tries to swallow the thick, acrid taste that fills his mouth. They’d come here for this, but he’s still been unprepared for it. Sam looks as sickened as Dean feels, but Castiel’s face has turned grim and hard.

“We need to go there,” Sam says, hesitant. “This is what we have to send back home. This is what, hopefully, makes it stop.”

Kevin doesn’t hesitate. “I can take you.”

 

 

Neak Leung has been razed to the ground. Pulverized. Kevin leads them through a stumbling path filled with debris and dying civilians.

Sam strides the length and breadth of the clearing. He takes pictures, every click-and-whirr loud as gunshots. Dean’s camera hangs like a lead weight against his chest. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes from the guttural breathing of a dying child to – take a fucking picture. Instead of helping. He’s going to photograph this tragedy and sell it for money. Profiting off death and destruction. There’s nothing else he can do. He can feel the choking swell of bile rising in his throat and he can’t. This is wrong. Why does he deserve to stand here when –

A hand steadies him by the shoulder and Dean turns to find Castiel right behind him. Words escape Dean. Are there any words for atrocities like this? The size of it is too big for him to wrap his head around, but Castiel looks back at him, unwavering. Castiel understands.

Something in Dean’s chest twists and unlocks and Dean finds himself unravelling without a sound. The next breath he takes is shuddering and deep. Castiel squeezes his shoulder briefly and lets go. Dean tries to soldier on.

“… she’s saying she needs help,” Kevin translates. The woman tugging at Sam’s arm barely comes up to his chest. She’s fairly calm, considering her world just crumbled to dust around her, but she’s insistent, and Sam follows her helplessly. Kevin keeps up his translating, adding, “Her shop was destroyed in the explosion. A big explosion. Her husband is dead. Her children are here.”

Sam stops short and Dean nearly collides into him. Seated on the rubble are three dirty, bloodstained, but otherwise mostly unharmed children. The oldest girl, no older than five, or six, grabs hold of Sam’s knee, imploring him to buy a piece of shiny plastic for a dollar in broken English.

Dean drops to his knees as Kevin continues to converse with the lady. Her youngest, a round-faced toddler grabs Dean by his hair and Dean leans forward willingly. The boy clutches Dean’s face, bringing him close, peering into his eyes and Dean tries not to blink. Unbidden, the small arms circle around his head drawing him into a laughing, innocent, affectionate embrace. Dean hugs the boy back until he feels more than he sees Castiel settle down beside them. Every breath starts to hurt. Dean hates the feeling. It’s sheer, utter helplessness.

The rumble of a jeep causes the survivors of the makeshift, and frankly rudimentary, camp to fall silent. Dean follows when Castiel stands. Sam looks questioningly at Kevin.

“The army has rounded up Khmer Rouge operatives,” Kevin offers, looking worried. He chews his lip and steps back so he’s closer to Castiel.

Four armed men dressed in camo get out of the jeep. They drag two half naked Cambodian boys– roughly Kevin’s age– out and proceed to beat and bully them across the dirt yard. No one else moves. Dean watches in stricken silence as the captives are blindfolded with rags and then summarily shot. Dean doesn’t wince. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. He doesn’t know. His ears ring with the sounds until they fade away and the world is drained entirely of sound. By the time his brain has caught up with his feet, Kevin is tugging at his elbow, begging, “Dean, no, please– they’ll–”

But he’s lifting the camera to his eye, clicking away. The soldiers are distracted from their kills. The next second Dean finds himself staring down the barrel of an AK-47, so he drops the camera and raises his arms above his head in surrender.

 

 

“Fuck,” Sam swears in the darkness. “For fuck’s sake, Dean, seriously.”

“The U.S. army will be here shortly,” says Castiel. It’s the first thing he’s said since they were shoved into the dark, dank room.

Dean sits and sweats and breathes, elbows on his knees, head hanging between his legs. He can’t get the sight of the blood and the bodies out of his mind. They’re there, like phosphene imprints on his eyelids, every time he closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry Castiel, Kevin,” Dean says finally. “Shouldn’t’ve dragged you two into this.”

No one says anything in reply and the silent darkness prickles with discomfort.

Finally, Sam asks, “When can you file the copy, Kevin?”

“Few days from now,” Kevin replies.

“Dammit, that’s not good enough,” Sam snaps, frustrated. “This needs to get out and it needs to get out now.”

Before Kevin can reply, Castiel cuts in, stern and disapproving. Dean’s known the guy for barely two days but he can practically hear the frown in Castiel’s voice. “Tomorrow morning is the best he can do.”

“That’s good enough,” Dean says peaceably, willing Sam to shut the hell up and sit tight.

A breeze filters in through the lone barred window and Dan shivers as the sweat cools on his skin. Lights flash through the bars a moment later and everyone’s attention shifts to the scene unfolding outside. The chopper is immediately recognizable as U.S. military, but the people walking closer aren’t just officers.

“International Press Corps,” Castiel supplies helpfully.

Sam swears again. “Are you kidding me? We have to get our copies filed or this is. _Jesus_.”

“Hey,” Dean growls, sensing Castiel and Kevin tensing at Sam’s outburst. “Simmer down. Shit’s getting done as fast as possible so can the freak out, Sammy.”

Sam huffs, but wisely shuts up. Castiel shoots Dean a look, but it’s too dark to properly discern. It’s certainly not gratitude, but Dean imagines it is to try and feel a little better.

 

 

The sun sets. Dusk paints the sky in triboluminescent pink and gold and it’s breathtaking. The ocean waters glitter beyond the gently swaying palm trees. This is another world, so far away from the boxed cubicles back home. Dean sits in a wooden chair thinking that if heavy, sweet rum where a moment in time, this would be it. Right here.

How can it look so peaceful when somewhere not far from here, someone has lost everything? Someone has been orphaned. He can’t help wondering what he’d do if something like that ever happened to Sam. every muscle in his body feels knotted and the adrenaline leaves goosebumps and chattering teeth in its wake despite the relative warmth of the evening.

Castiel sidles up beside him. He leans against the parapet to face Dean; a black silhouette against the canvas of the sky. When Dean looks up, Castiel meets his gaze steadily. Moments pass in silence. After the past two days, it’s no longer awkward and empty, but oddly meaningful and impregnable. The understanding in Castiel’s meditative blue eyes feels like the only solid, beautiful thing in the suffocating green of this country for Dean to gravitate towards. It’s a fixed point in the sky, a beacon, opening up to let Dean in, drawing him away from the oppressing weight of reality.

In the distance, Dean can hear Sam and Kevin talking to some of the officers and the journalists. Sam doesn’t sound like he’s about to prattle off a self-righteous lecture, so Dean tunes it out.

“You did the right thing,” Castiel says after a long time.

Dean shakes his head, throat locking up. “I didn’t do jack, Cas. Took a bunch of pictures and I’m not even that good with a camera. In fact, I went and got us in trouble and basically pissed our work away.”

The nickname slips out easily and Castiel doesn’t appear to register the change. He cocks his head at an angle, pinning Dean with another concentrated, searching look. “The world needs to know what’s happening. You can’t measure a victory by who gets the story out first anymore. It’s not blame that falls on you, Dean. It’s fate. Circumstances beyond your control. This is the reality here.”

“It’s too big. I can’t do this. By all rights, I shouldn’t. This was Sam’s calling. He’s the one that went to college and got caught up in the protests and movements. He actually knows what’s what with the politics and I just… tagged along.” Dean swallows thickly, but the lump stays lodged firmly in his throat.

“We have to stay,” Dean adds and he’s grateful that his voice only shakes a little. He can’t imagine not getting the hell out of here as fast as he can, but he can’t just walk away from it. Not anymore. Not after what he’s seen. He’s useless. He can’t stop the killing. He can’t save the dying. Can’t pull shrapnel out of weeping, broken bodies. He can’t even ease their pain, but he needs to be here.

“No,” Castiel says, with surprising conviction. “You don’t.”

Dean smiles weakly and he hopes the frailty and cowardice of it is lost to the swiftly coming night. “Actually, we do. We gotta make good on a promise. We gotta Kevin outta here, Cas.”


	2. 1975

It pours all morning. Dean’s shirt sticks with sweat and worse. The worst part is, he’s used to it. He finds Cas waiting for him in his hotel room so he shucks the camera bag on the unused bed immediately. Cas sets the newspaper – or maybe it was a rough draft of Sam’s story – aside and sits up, expectant.

“I got Kevin and his mom on the list,” Dean confirms, kneeling before Cas to retrieve his bag from under the bed for a change of clothes. “They’re heading out today with the Americans.”

Cas nods, then sounding and looking grateful, he says, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Don’t thank me. Deal’s a deal. Wasn’t gonna renege after all we’ve been through.” Dean hesitates as he tosses his soiled shirt aside, holding a fresh one in his hands. He hates the way he seizes up in anticipation because he knows Cas is going to be a stubborn bastard about this but he says it anyway. “Listen to me. I got you on it, too. You’re getting outta here, you hear me?”

“No.” Cas stiffens, expression closing off. Dean lets out an abortive sound of frustration and runs his hands through his hair, but before he can speak Cas says, sounding, for the first time, almost tentative, “I can help you if I’m here. You don’t speak the language. Once Kevin’s gone you’re on your own.”

It was Dean’s idea, but Sam agreed that they would get Cas out with the American evacuation. Cas’ shitty diplomat family had deserted him in war-torn, bloodthirsty Cambodia for the help he’d given to the Trans and the other Cambodian families. Even though he had no ties with the New York Times and wasn’t a correspondent, they could get him out. With Benny, and now, Bobby, on the force, they’d find room for one more.

The first time Cas ever spoke of his desertion, he said something about being lucky he hadn’t been charged with treason. The bitterness in his voice seemed to come from a hurt that festered deeper than the wounds of this war and Dean found himself hurting for Cas. Cas’ friends at the embassy continued to shelter him out of good will, but with the Khmer Rouge advancing into Phnom Penh, the embassy would evacuate and they would have no choice but to leave Cas behind. He would be at the khmer rouge’s mercy. He’d be– Dean can’t bring himself to think about it.

Everything has changed. It’d changed from the moment they’d met. Dean knows Cas. He knows what makes Cas special. What makes him real. Knows Cas is French by birth, yet American educated, which explains his accent and the odd, musical lilting cadence of his words. The only thing Cas has ever admitted to liking is burgers, and though he smiles, he never responds when Dean promises that one day, he’s gonna take Cas to the best burger joint in the world.

In the intervening years, Dean and Sam made two trips back home. They returned to Cambodia each time with the fear that Cas would be gone, dead or worse, and there’d be nothing Dean would’ve been able to do about it.

“Let me bottom-line it for you,” Dean says, leaning forward to grip Cas by his shoulders, ignoring, for now, how bony they felt under his hands, “I’m not leaving here without you.”

Cas matches his gaze with solemn resolution. “I understand.”

 

 

Dean tears through the grassy base, panting against the wind buffeting him back. The helicopters are roaring, ready for lift off. He can see Cas ahead of him and beyond Cas, his gargantuan kid brother loping after Kevin, practically carrying Kevin’s mother and one of their two suitcases.

“Dean!” Cas shouts, turning back and holding a hand out. Dean grabs hold of it and surges forward with him. They skirt around a bellowing air marshall to where Kevin and Sam are bundling Mrs. Tran and the bags into the helicopter.

Kevin hesitates before climbing on as well and Sam grins at him and yells, loud enough to be heard over the deafening blades, “See you in New York!”

Even as the first chopper lifts off Kevin bursts into tears and throws himself at Sam. He extricates himself almost immediately to hug Cas and Dean. Then he’s being bodily shoved into the chopper by Benny.

They stand in silence, watching the helicopter ascend into the black, smoking sky. It rises and disappears slowly through the smog and Dean feels something in his chest loosen in relief. He listens as Sam sniffles, not trusting himself to speak. Cas slips a hand into Dean’s and squeezes. His blue eyes are suspiciously bright, but he’s grinning, chest rising and falling with overwhelming relief and Dean just takes the moment to drink it in and stare at him uninterrupted.

The rain clears into a hot, humid afternoon as they head back into the city for the French embassy. The Khmer Rouge tanks had rolled in while they’d seen Kevin and his mother off and the streets remain littered with the remnants of the parade.

“No more war,” Cas murmurs, reading one of the abandoned signs. He’s crammed into the back seat of the car beside Dean.

The quiet in Phnom Penh feels too quiet. Something is wrong but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. He can tell from the set of Cas’ shoulders and the way Sam is hunched over beside their Cambodian driver that they feel it, too.

Sam turns in his seat and replies with, “That’s the hope, anyway.”

“Humans have an inhuman propensity for inflicting torture and a superhuman capacity for withstanding it,” Cas says wryly. “So, on and on it goes. If not here, then somewhere else.”

“Well, we’re here now,” Dean grunts, feeling a headache coming on.

“We are.” Cas offers him a small, startlingly sweet smile. Like he’s simply glad for Dean’s company, circumstances notwithstanding. It feels out of place in the midst of this horribleness, but it’s still simultaneously exactly what Dean needs, settling in his chest warmly like a salve. 

And Dean finds himself agreeing. He’d rather be here, beside Cas, than back home without him. Well, he’d really rather be back home with Cas. And he will, if he has any say in the matter. It’s the first time the thought comes to him consciously and fully solidified, but he realizes, he’s not shocked or surprised. It just makes sense.

Their driver turns into a street only to be met by the sight of an oncoming tank.

Sam turns back to Cas. “What do we do?”

“Back up,” Dean urges, leaning forward and tapping the driver’s shoulder for attention. “Back up right now.”

The driver does as instructed and Cas spares Dean a glance, expression somewhere between worry and reassurance. Before their driver can take them on a different route, the Khmer Rouge soldiers seated on the outside of the tank holler for them to stop. The driver obeys. The tank advances down the street and stops before them and more soldiers pour out– children, Dean realizes, insides twisting in desolate horror, armed with rifles. The doors of the car are wrenched open and all four of them are dragged out at gunpoint.

Their driver is Cambodian, so he’s cut loose, but the three of them are then heaved into the tank. Ensconced in the darkness, they drive for what feels like hours, but can’t be more than a half hour, and Dean soaks his shirt with sweat thinking, this is how it ends.

 

 

The children barely come up to Dean’s chest when he stands, blinking in the sudden sunlight, trying to get his cramping legs to work. The ends of the rifles poke at his chest and back and the terror keeps Dean jogging forward at the pace they set, taking him and Sam and Cas down a back alley.

Cas begs. He talks softly, deferential, but insistent, and in fluent Khmer. When responded to, he sometimes slips into French. An hour into it, Dean and Sam squat uselessly in a corner, watched by a couple of boys, and Cas is on his knees, with his hands joined in supplication as he continues to plead and reason with a teenager who is mostly ignoring him.

There are civilian Cambodians squatting alongside the opposite wall. Some time later, one of the Khmer Rouge boys draws Dean’s attention, only to open fire on one of the captive Cambodians. Dean shuts his eyes and Sam flinches into his side. The man dies without making a sound and the body falls and lays there, blood soaking the ragged clothes and pooling in the dirt.

Dean finds he can get used to anything, however disturbing. It hollows him out, but he doesn’t puke like he would’ve when he’d first gotten here. He tries to focus on the sound of Cas’ voice instead, even though he can’t understand the words.

Later still, the Khmer Rouge boy soldiers have pilfered two crates of Coca Colas. Dean’s near dizzy from hunger and dehydration. Sam sways beside him. Cas is still talking. Still begging. One of the boys cracks a bottle open, walks over to Dean and offers it to him. Dean eyes him in suspicion. When he glances at Cas for guidance, Cas nods almost imperceptibly. Dean reaches up for the bottle and boy rears back, threatening to brain him with it. When Dean flinches and falls back before he can help himself, laughter scatters across the pack.

It’s humiliating, but it hardly matters. This is what’s real right now. Dean has found staring down the business end of a gun reduces human beings to who they really are. He owns it, because yeah, it’s shameful, but it is what it is. There’s no reason, no logical cause-and-effect. They taunt him for a few more minutes before the boy Cas had been badgering barks an order, and Cas practically runs over to him and Sam.

“Are we okay?” Sam mutters, wincing as he gets to his feet.

“Looks good,” Cas says under his breath as they hightail it out of the alley and onto one of the main streets.

 

 

At the embassy, they have to climb over the walls to get in. Dean barely clears it when the heavens open and let loose a torrent of rain. The streets are packed with Cambodians evacuating Phnom Penh and those lucky enough to be friends and family of reporters and diplomats have even made it into the embassy.

Ash welcomes them when they cross the grounds and get into the building. “BB folks have already split,” he informs them. “They’re about to clear us all outta here, too. You’re coming with, right? Cas?”

“He is,” Dean confirms even as Cas shuts his mouth in a firm line in the way that they’ve come to know means he disagrees.

Sam picks up on it faster and sighs. “Cas, this isn’t up for debate. You’re coming with us.”

Cas shakes his head. “There’s no way they’ll take me. My father– but worse, Michael. Not after what happened to them for helping my brother, Gabriel. No, Dean. I’m all out of favors. And anyway, they stripped me of my papers. I have no passport.”

Dean feels his heart sink. Coming up with it, their plan had been realizable. Realistic, even. Get Cas on the chopper and then on the flight out of Bangkok. Once in the States, he’d claim asylum and gain citizenship. Where he’d then live out the rest of his natural life, happily ever after. The end. Now it all just seems hopelessly optimistic.

Ash pulls sam aside for a furious, whispered conversation, but Dean ignores it. “We need you, Cas,” he says, not caring who’s listening or how it sounds, “I need you.”

“Dean,” Cas steps closer, calm and placating. Just as Dean had planned to get Cas out of here, Cas planned for this. “I stayed this long– I did it for you, and I wanted to. I wanted to be here. It was my choice. But if I stay here any longer I’ll be hunted. If I leave now, with the Cambodians, I can make it out to Thailand. If you get there before me, leave a message at Reuters and I will find you.”

“Give me some time to think about this,” Dean begs. “Give me one hour.”

Cas’ plan is simply too risky. There are so many unknowns. Cas could be captured and slaughtered for trying to cross the border. He could be shot simply for crossing the street. Dean scrubs at his face, exhausted and trying to think.

Cas frowns. “That’s not something I have to give.”

“Okay, lovebirds,” Ash says, stepping between them. “We’ve got a spare passport. Girl named Amelia James Novak. She worked with the Reuters dudes but she kind of… well, she bit the dust. We white out the first name, slap Castiel’s picture on it and say his name is James Novak. How’s that for a plan?”

“Do you have a photograph, Cas? A polaroid? Anything?” Sam asks. “I would just take a picture, but we’re all out of film.”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I don’t. They took everything.”

“Some sort of ID? Press pass?” Dean urges.

“No, Dean,” Cas insists, sounding a little hoarse. “I don’t have anything. And I was never a journalist, remember?”

“Shit,” Ash groans, “Okay, that’s a little hiccup, but it’s cool. This is an embassy, there’s gotta be a roll of film somewhere. I’m gonna look for that and we’re getting you a passport, Cas.”

 

 

“Don’t smile,” Dean says, because Cas is leveling the camera with a severe frown and Dean can’t help a little teasing. They’re so close to freedom, he can taste it, and thinking of the alternative is– well, it doesn’t do any good. It’s too late to turn back and let Cas go, so this has to work. There’s no Plan B.

Cas’ forehead smooths out and his lips twitch, but he tamps it down. It’s unreasonably adorable. “I’m trying.”

Ash came through with a roll of film and Dean didn’t even think about questioning the blessing. There are worse crimes than stealing film. Sam fidgets with the camera while Ash figures out how to turn one of the bathrooms into a makeshift darkroom.

“Okay,” Sam says, signaling for Cas to look at him. Sam takes about five shots, just to be safe, and leaves to find Ash.

Cas sits down beside Dean with a heavy, tired sigh. He buries himself into the corner of the bench seat, shrinking as he crosses his legs. Dean closes the minuscule space between them and relaxes almost automatically into the warmth.

“Got a good feeling about this,” Dean says, mostly to boost morale, though he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or Cas. He can’t let himself think about actually being back home with Cas. Of all the things that would be so much easier to say, or even just think about, without all this hanging over them. Cas shifts, pressing his shoulder to Dean’s and he hums in approval.

“If this works, it would be ideal.”

“It’s going to work. It’s working.” Dean gives Cas a playful nudge and Cas rests a hand on Dean’s knee, keeping it pressed against Cas. The point of contact radiates along Dean’s side, from shoulder to calf. It feels good. Comforting.

It rains and rains and rains outside. The breeze turns a little chilly, but it’s sparse and the air is still warm and stifling. Cas’ hand stays on Dean’s knee, warm and anchoring, quelling Dean’s urge to  bounce his leg in nervousness. The wait is the worst part. The anxiety, the not knowing.

“You are very difficult to refuse,” Cas says softly. Dean turns to make a quip about the burdens of being so pretty, but he finds Cas’ face much closer to his than he’d expected and the look on it is so tender that it steals his breath away. Something in dean’s chest (something stupid) leaps to respond with longing and Cas’ hand lifts from Dean’s knee to to cup Dean’s cheek as he says, voice raw with wonder, “Why do you feel so right to me?”

And what is Dean supposed to say to that? When the truth is, Cas is not only the only true north to the magnet permanently lodged in Dean’s heart, but he’s the start and finish and everything in between. This is the closest they’ve ever come to acknowledging the nameless feeling that’s been steadily pulling them together.

Dean was wrong. This is the only simple, honest thing in the mess of this war. He’s sure of it now. Surer than he’s been of anything in his life. This is what he wants. He wants cas. But he doesn’t want it said like this. Just choked out on half of a goodbye.

Cas licks his lips and Dean’s drawn to the scar-pink of his mouth, in the shape of a want that hurts, and Dean’s suddenly desperate to kiss the words out of him. “Dean, if this doesn’t work, I just want you to know–”

“Hey, alright, save the hallmark,” Dean interrupts, looking back up and into Cas’ eyes to try and say, yeah. He knows. He knows.

Cas raises an eyebrow, looking like he’s going to continue anyway, and Sam reappears. Dean’s torn between disappointment and gratitude, but Sam grumbles about being kicked out of the dark room for getting caught in Ash’s mullet and Cas laughs. And that seals it. Dean magnanimously decides that Sam can be forgiven.

Some fifteen minutes later, Ash shows up grinning with a photograph.

 

 

In the end, it doesn’t work.

Sam comes back with the passport and he can’t even look Dean in the eye. Dean takes it from him, flipping it open to find the photograph has faded to nothing. It didn’t work.

He has to do something. He has to move his feet and talk to– but Cas is at his side moments later. He sags against Dean for a moment and the disappointment on his face is so acute, Dean fights the urge to lash out and tear down the entire goddamn embassy.

“The solution we had was too strong. It kept fading,” Ash says weakly. “The first three didn’t even… man, I’m so sorry.”

Cas swallows and centers his weight back on his own feet. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

“It is! You should’ve let him go, Dean,” Sam says angrily, and Dean knows he’s saying it because he’s frustrated and frightened, but he’s also right. “You should never have asked him to stay.”

“Sam, please don’t,” Cas says before Dean can open his mouth. “I know your brother. This is not his fault. He had the best intentions.”

He shoulders the small bag he’d been carrying, then thinks better of it and gives it to Dean. There can’t be more than a change of clothes and two books in it, but Dean clutches it for something to hold onto while he tears away on the inside. He can’t just let Cas walk away.

“I’ll hold onto this for you, so you better…” Dean chokes out, scraping the words together. They stick in his throat angrily, like blades, because this is another promise he’s asking of Cas, when he shouldn’t. He can’t protect Cas. He doesn’t deserve to ask anything of Cas.

“Dean,” Cas starts, and Dean can’t bear it anymore. He pulls Cas into his arms. This close he can feel Cas’ fear coming off him in tangible waves. It’s almost charged and electric, and Cas’ heart tattoos a frenetic beat pressed against Dean’s chest. His own heart races in tandem.

Dean feels Cas turn to the crook of his neck. Feels the silent drip of tears as Cas presses the words into Dean’s skin. “I will survive. I’ll do anything for you.”

Then he pulls away, walking into the merciless rain without a backward glance and Dean has to let him go.

 


	3. 1976

The photograph they couldn’t develop in Cambodia has now been replicated more than a hundred times. Castiel’s face stares up at Dean from Sam’s desk, attached to nearly a dozen neatly laid out missing person letters.

There’s one other photograph of Cas on Sam’s desk, but he’s not looking at the camera in it. Dean remembers the day with astonishing clarity. Cas had been driving them back from filing copies to their hotel in Phnom Penh. In the picture, Cas is sitting behind the wheel, beard a dark scruff that covers half his face, laughing with his head thrown back. The crow’s feet around the corner of his eyes are deep as gouges.

Dean’s on the phone but he has the receiver pressed between his shoulder and his ear so his hands are free to trace the lines as he says, “No… _Castiel_  Milton… dark hair, blue eyes, around six feet…”

Eight months since he last saw Cas. That last day is simply too painful to think about. Dean misses him at almost every turn. He tried to work until he started to ignore it almost completely in favor of finding Cas. It was impossible to focus on anything when Dean’s mind kept choosing to wander to the past.

It keeps happening. Dean finds himself standing in a store at eight in the morning, trying to get groceries and he’s reminded of the time Cas surrendered his portion of watery rice gruel for Sam, who’d been recovering from a nasty flu. Dean’s certain Cas must’ve been famished. When Sam drags Dean to their parents’ home for a holiday, Dean ends up narrating to his mother a story of the time Cas made the most perfect contraband cherry custards in the sweltering embassy kitchen because Dean had made an offhand comment about missing pie. Watching as Sam putters around the car under dad’s guidance on a weekend afternoon and Dean’s reminded of Cas again– frowning, dressed in the slightly oversized AC/DC shirt they’d brought back for him, aviators perched on his nose, elbow-deep in the trunk of a jeep, looking for spare film.

More often than not, Dean wakes up at night to the sight of the zeroes on the alarm clock resting atop Cas’ books on the nightstand. Cas is the ghost in his dreams fleeing reality and the cold emptiness of his bed.

There’s room in Dean’s life – the clothes he collects in one size too small for himself, the spare toothbrush with bristles harder than he likes, the books that he never reads but brings back to the shelf he built – just waiting to be occupied and it stares back at him the longer he goes without filling it, silent and reproachful.

The phone rings, breaking Dean out of his reverie. He doesn’t even remember hanging up. It’s Jess, reminding him of their invites to the Pulitzer do next week. Sam had been nominated.

Dean has no interest in the award function. He’s proud of Sam, but he’s not interested in a party. He wouldn’t even be going if it weren’t for the fact that Kevin was sharing it and God knows, if anyone deserved an award, that boy did.

It’s been a while since he saw Kevin. The Trans settled down in Michigan and going by the latest phone call from a month ago, Kevin was completing high school. He was in advanced placement and thinking of going to Stanford. Just like Sam. _Good for him_ , Dean thinks.

 

 

“We’re so glad you made it, Dean,” Jess says from where she’s tucked beside Sam. She’s the picture of elegance, dressed in black, blond hair pulled up in a bun, and she makes Sam look about a hundred times better by association.

Dean shrugs and runs a finger under his collar, tugging it away from the sweat that’s turning his skin itchy. He loves Jess and he knows she means well, but this place is making his skin crawl. It’s simultaneously hot and cold in the banquet hall and Dean feels a little hungry and a little sick. There are too many people. Every time someone stops to congratulate Sam and Kevin, Dean has to struggle not to think of Kevin’s acceptance speech. Of the way he’d looked right at Dean from the podium and said, “I never stop thinking about our dear friend Castiel.”

It’s probably stupid to feel so bitter, because there’s no doubt that Sam and, most importantly, Kevin, deserve this. But everything about the evening feels slathered in a film of bullshit. They didn’t stew in their sweat and fear for years to be brought here and applauded by people who couldn’t begin to comprehend what it meant to live through war. Dean had wanted to break the fancy dinner plates staring coldly back at him.

His fingers itched to be laced in Cas’, to feel the warmth of his skin, and the understanding reassurance of his blue gaze. He missed Cas with an acute desperation. He was out of his depth here. Tired of the smalltalk. Cas would probably know the answer to whether the mess they’d lived through was more Johnson’s fault than Nixon’s. or maybe it was Kennedy’s. All Dean knows is that it was fucked up.

“Dean Winchester. I’ve heard so much about you,” says someone from behind him and Dean whips around. The man gives him a wan smile and adds, “Senior editor at the BBC, Fergus Crowley. You’ve met my correspondents, Bela Talbot and Balthazar Adler?”

“Oh.” Dean nods, relaxing marginally. “Yeah, I remember them. How’re they doing?”

“As of last week, only a little banged up.  Nothing they haven’t dealt with before,” Crowley says around a smug sip of wine. “They’ve moved back to Saigon, of course. You know how it is.”

“Right,” Dean replies faintly, though he doesn’t, in fact, know how it is.

He’s not too keen on Crowley and not entirely sure as to why. It’s funny, Dean thinks, he can handle the stress of facing down teenagers armed with rifles with more ease. In a perverse way that lawlessness makes sense. It’s a variation on purity; find a cause and follow it, everything else is collateral. This, though… the snake-in-the-grass, oily, political machinations? It creeps him the hell out.

Jess seems to read his discomfort because she extracts herself subtly from Sam’s side and comes to stand beside Dean. Sam and Kevin are too deep in conversation with the other journalists to notice. Dean’s torn between relief and annoyance, but he squares his shoulders anyway. He doesn’t need looking after.

Crowley glances at Jess and exchanges introductions with smiles again, before looking back at Dean. “Anyway, I just wanted to come over and commend your admirable work in Cambodia. I’ve seen the pictures and heard so much from Talbot, who was quite taken with you despite the fact that you were, ah, immune to her charms.”

Dean knows he should let the off-color remark slide because the guy’s probably just a sore loser trying to get a rise out of him. He should just laugh it off or walk away, but he feels rooted to the spot. There’s a slithering undercurrent of insinuation and Dean’s gut twists in almost-comprehension. Jess bristles beside him, but Dean speaks before she can intervene. “What are you trying to say?”

“Oh, I meant no offense, lad,” Crowley feigns exaggerated shock, “We share that preference, so I certainly see the appeal, trust me. It’s just, well, your French friend? Castiel Milton? Quite generous with his help, considering that he’s, after all, French.”

“You know nothing about him,” Dean bites out, voice shaking with anger, blood running cold. Jess tries to wind her arm around his shoulders, but he shakes her off. “So do us all a favor and shut the hell up.”

Crowley has the gall to look amused. “I’d say I know a fair bit, Dean. My sources were there for the duration your sordid affair. You used him for as long as you could and then you left him for dead. Not that I don’t approve thoroughly– ”

“Mr. Crowley,” Jess says severely and Dean finds her hand wrapped around his forearm, holding back his fist. “If you’re not going to apologize immediately, this conversation is over.”

Jess tries to steer him away but Dean wrenches himself out of her grasp, only to turn blindly and bump into a waiter. The platter flies to the ground, shattering the glass and streaking everyone in the vicinity with spilled drinks. The room is suddenly too small. Dean can hear Sam call for him over the ringing in his ears, but he’s done. He blunders out of the room, jostling more people and not bothering to apologize. He only comes to himself in the parking lot, braced against the hood of his car, struggling to catch his breath.

  
  


Crowley’s accusations eat at him.

Dean begins to keep an eye on the television as well. People are more interested in Vietnam, which runs more popular with the tag of the first televised war, but news from Cambodia trickles in.

Every foreign presence evacuates. The death tolls rise higher. Anyone straying into Cambodian waters is captured and tortured to death. The fields turn into mass graves. Crops fertilized by corpses. Dean shows up at work only long enough to keep up the phone calls and the letters. And nothing. No one has seen or heard of a Castiel Milton.

Sam lures Dean out for Christmas by reminding him that Kevin and his mother have never had a Christmas before. Benny calls saying he’ll be in town for it, too. It turns out to be just what Dean needs.

Jess and Mary compensate for John’s meddling in the kitchen and dinner is homely and wonderful. Benny takes it upon himself to mix everyone drinks and flirts outrageously with Mary, much to Sam’s horror and everyone else’s amusement. Mrs. Tran spends most of the day absolutely taken by a Spanish soap that Dean finds himself hooked as well. Kevin has to be bodily dragged away from his books.

“Does everyone like eggnog? Did Cas?” Kevin demands, wrinkling his nose at his mostly untouched glass over dinner. His accent is unnoticeable now. And though it hurts like pulling at still tender scar tissue, Dean laughs and everyone else smiles indulgently. No one mentions Cas again, but he hovers like a spectre, perched on Dean’s shoulder.

At the airport, Benny cuts their goodbyes short to say, “It doesn’t stop hurting, brother. It just… becomes a part of you.”

“I wish.” Dean sighs heavily, unable to continue. It takes him almost a minute before he can get the words out. “I just wish I knew one way or another. And I really wish people would stop talking about him like he’s–” he shuts his eyes and tries not to think of the word, or worse, picture Cas, bloodied and limp, rotting into nothing. He has to clear his throat before he clarifies, “Because we don’t know.”

Benny shakes his head. Maybe he’s the only one who comes close to really getting it, but he’s still wrong. he has to be. He never knew Cas. He may have lost other soldiers, friends and brothers, but it wasn’t the same. “I hate to say it,” he says gruffly, “but sometimes not knowing is better. You do what you can. You don’t always get handed closure.”

“It was my fault,” Dean all but whispers, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “He wanted to leave and he probably would’ve made it out. But I made him stay.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes and Dean manages something like a grateful grimace when Benny doesn’t try again.

  
  


It’s early on a Thursday morning when the phone rings. Dean makes it back to the cubicle and picks it up on the third ring, coffee in one hand.

“Dean Winchester speaking,” he says automatically, completely missing the significance of the telltale tinny rattle of a long distance call.

The sharp intake of breath comes through the receiver in a crackle of static. And then the mug slips out of Dean’s hand, scalding his suit and staining the carpeted floor because it’s him – cracked and sore and aching and bursting at the seams with so much condensed into two words Dean never thought he’d hear in that voice again.

“Hello, Dean.”

  
  


Landing in Bangkok sweeps Dean’s feet out from under him all over again. He took the first flight out which meant his connection was dreadful. Complete with an unnecessary five hour layover in the middle east. He didn’t sleep. He could barely sit still for the twenty six hour ordeal. He didn’t think to change dollars to bahts, so he’s standing outside the Red Cross shelter, begging the taxi driver to just take three hundred dollars and fuck the fuck off when he hears the gummy slap of rubber slippers against cement floor and turns around in time to see Cas.

Cas, far too skinny, dressed in white scrubs about four sizes too big for him, covered in bruises, and smiling. Dean can’t look away as he jogs up the short flight of stairs. He ignores the taxi driver’s indignant protests and throws himself at Cas. And Cas, despite looking terribly malnourished, weathers the brunt of Dean’s weight extraordinarily well.

“How did you – how are you– ?” Dean chokes, unable to let go.

Cas rests a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades and takes in great, shuddering breaths, shaking like a leaf. It’s minutes before he pulls back and even then it’s only just enough to look Dean in the eye. His lips quirk up slightly and he says, “We had an appointment.”

“Oh god. You’re just. Look at you, buddy. Nice peach fuzz,” Dean says with a watery chuckle as he rubs a knuckle through the wild beard and Cas responds with a small laugh. Dean grips Cas by the shoulders, still unable to let go and Cas lets his hands fall to rest around Dean’s hips.

“You look older. More tired.” Cas regards him in something like wonder and his usual brand of intense curiosity and dean soaks it up, skin going tight and tingly with pleasure.

“Thanks, am I blushing?” Dean teases, caught somewhere between relieved laughter and hysterical tears. “Don’t worry, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.”

Cas laughs again, soundlessly this time, and when it fades, hesitance cataracts the bright expectation in his eyes. “You still… you owe me a burger. As I recall, the best burger in the world.”

“Hell yeah. But Cas, listen, I,” Dean says, ducking his head and worrying his lip when Cas frowns. “You getting stuck here like that. It’s on me. If you hadn’t– well, I’d never have forgiven myself. You gotta believe that I’m so sorry for– everything. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through and you shouldn’t forgive me, but I’m sorry.”

In the moments of silence that follow, Dean expects Cas to agree. Once again, everything has changed. This year of separation, of whatever Cas has gone through that has him still looking half dead even after a week of being fed and sheltered, will remain a wedge between them. He expects Cas to say that whatever they had was lost to time. Then there was Dean’s selfishness. His impotence in doing anything to protect or help Cas. Dean prepares himself for it, because it’s a logical eventuality. And it doesn’t matter. He’ll spend as long as he needs to making amends. It’ll be enough for him.

But then Cas surprises him. Again. Reaching out, like the first time, when all evidence pointed to the fact that Dean was a mistake.

“I know you try, Dean, but you can’t save everyone. It’s not your responsibility. This was war and– well. You’re just a man,” Cas smiles, shaking his head. He cups a hand around Dean’s neck, fingers curled under the base of his skull, drawing Dean in for a kiss that’s lighter than the warmth of the evening sun, and still sweeter than the slowly gathering, summery, late january night. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

 


	4. 1980

They gather in Kansas, in Sam and Dean’s childhood home for Thanksgiving. This is the longest Dean has seen Cas in a fortnight. In spite of that, Cas multitasks. He flits between helping Dean’s mother in the kitchen and helping Jess with her thesis at the dining table and taking quick breaks in between to chat and laugh with Dean. It all leaves Dean feeling rather petulant about having to share his partner with his family.

John is still annoyingly wary of Cas. Sam handles their father by keeping him boxed in around the couch, watching TV. Now that he’s delivered a grandson, Sam is golden in their father’s eyes. More than he ever was. Honestly, Dean doesn’t care. (Okay, he does care. More than a little.) It’s his dad’s problem, he can stew in it. Dean’s happy.

“I can’t believe it,” Dean groans when Jess calls for Cas yet again, interrupting Cas’ quiet, yet excited retelling of one of his classes. “This is bullshit.”

“She’s preparing to defend, Dean,” Cas says reasonably, reaching up to run a hand through Dean’s hair. “You know how hard that can be. We went through it with my doctorate.”

He says ‘we’ as if Dean did more than watch and listen in awe. Cas had been magnificent. He hit the ground running when he got his citizenship. Turned out Cas had a masters that he wanted to upgrade to a doctorate, perhaps too sensibly, in international relations. He proceeded to complete it in record time – three years! And he was already teaching. Which, of course, meant that Dean had moved with him to DC and gotten a job at the Post.

“Yeah, whatever, go. Be brilliant. I’ll just be here, wasting away.” Dean fights to keep the affection out of his voice. Cas raises an eyebrow to indicate he’s not buying what Dean’s selling, but he’s already standing up to leave the room. Dean sticks to his guns. If Cas gets the impression that Dean doesn’t mind all that much, he might only see Cas again on the drive back home. And really, the drive had been more of a vacation than the holiday itself. Cas tried to suggest flying down but Dean had staunchly refused on the grounds that road trips were a sacred ritual. So they took the entire week off.

Dean turns to see what his mother is up to and finds she’s leaning against the counter, watching Dean from across the island with a frighteningly calculating look in her eyes.

“What?” he asks, defensive.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this happy before,” she muses with a smile, and then amends, “Unless there’s pie involved.”

“There is pie involved. It’s in the oven, right behind you,” Dean says, just to be contrary, but his mother doesn’t budge. “And I think he likes you guys better.”

Before she can reply, Cas is back, walking purposefully across the kitchen.

“That was quick,” Dean perks up but Cas doesn’t respond. He just presses closer, past the bubble of distance they keep for everyone else’s (mostly John’s) sake when they’re in company, and kisses Dean. It’s sweet and dry, little more than a press of lips, and he punctuates it by pressing his forehead to Dean’s.

Eyes still closed, Cas breathes, “I love you.” He draws back a little, gives Dean a searching look, nods to himself and says, “I just wanted you to know that.”

And then he’s out of the room before Dean can gather his wits to respond.

“You were saying?” Mary’s grin is smug.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but he can’t quite look at her. And he’s too pleased to bother feigning offense when his mother jokingly threatens to withhold dessert.

  
  


“… go see if uncle Dean is up yet, huh?”

Dean feigns sleep a little longer, listening to Cas whisper to and coddle the toddler. He turns to sneak a look at the alarm clock on the nightstand and finds it’s only ten thirty. Diabolically and criminally early for a Sunday morning. Dean loves his nephew more than he loves his brother but dammit, he had plans for this morning that involved particularly adult activities.

Despite that, Dean can’t help the painful clench of disbelieving happiness that seizes his chest at the sheer domesticity of watching Cas. He’s in his sensible blue pinstriped pajamas, sitting on the edge of the bed, bouncing baby tom on his knees. Nodding at Henry’s unintelligible garbles, Cas says, “Looks like he’s still asleep, so we’ll just have to wake him up.”

Then he shoots a glance over his shoulder and Dean’s too slow, so he gets caught with his eyes open. “Dean,” Cas says, eyebrow raised, simultaneously attractive and annoying. “Duty calls.”

“Ugh, Cas, no,” Dean grumbles, rolling over to bury his head in a pillow. “It’s too early for this shit. Just come back to bed.”

Dean’s pleasantly surprised when Cas seemingly complies without argument. The mattress dips under his weight, but when Dean reaches out to pull Cas flush against him, he opens his eyes and gets a face full of grinning, drooling eighteen month old. Whom he loves. On other occasions. Just not when he’s cockblocking his uncle.

“Not with him,” Dean complains. “Go give him away to someone else. He’s got grandparents. They literally live for this.”

“Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean intones, mimicking him in a very mature move.

Cas reaches out and cards a soothing hand through Dean’s hair. “We promised Sam and Jess we’d look after Henry so they’d have the day to themselves. Don’t shirk your avuncular responsibilities.”

Dean reaches around Henry’s squirming swaddle to slide a hand under Cas’ shirt, supplementing his offer with a demonstration. Fingers grazing sleep-warm skin, he says, “Okay, but I have a better idea. Come back to bed so we can make out and mess around and after, I’ll make us chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Tempting,” Cas muses, trying to hide his smirk. “But no. Your parents have already stepped out to shop.” Cas pauses, biting his lip as Dean’s roaming fingers circle a nipple and adds, “I have a counter offer.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks, thumbing the sensitive flesh with lazy intent.

He sits up and carefully circumvents Henry to straddle Cas’ hips. He skims the sides of Cas’ lithe torso, rucking the shirt all the way up, widening the trajectory as he goes. Then he adds a third point of contact with open-mouthed kisses, chasing a decisive line from Cas’ navel to the shallow valley of his clavicle. Cas hums, receptive and smiling, hands fastened at Dean’s shoulders. When Dean sucks around the bob of his Adam’s apple, Cas’ breath hitches and his fingers tighten, digging bluntly into the muscle. It’s when Dean finally leans up to kiss him that Cas threads a hand into the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck.

He meets Dean’s eyes with so much tender fondness that it still staggers Dean and says, “Stop distracting me.”

Dean kisses him anyway, because he can’t help it. He tugs at the supple bow of Cas’ lower lip with his teeth, intent on turning the bruise pink to a swollen red and sighs, “Fine.”

“A compromise,” Cas says, reciprocating with a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. The hand not fastened in Dean’s hair is sliding under Dean’s arm to anchor him at the hip. “Spend the day with your nephew–”

“ _Our_ nephew,” Dean insists, not missing the way Cas begins rubbing circles with his thumb into the vee of Dean’s hipbone. “You’re half responsible for this adorable bundle of snot and poop.”

“Alright,” Cas makes a show of rolling his eyes, laughing and dodging when Dean tries to kiss him again. “Let me finish!”

Henry murmurs beside them, responding to the sound and Dean lets out an unhappy groan, sitting back a little.

“Thank you,” Cas says politely, utterly at odds with his half-debauched state of disarray. “Spend the day with Tom and I will make it up to you in the evening.”

“How?” Dean crosses his arms, settling more properly into Cas’ lap, playing difficult.

This time Cas reaches for him, mirroring Dean’s touches in reverse, caressing his flank in something like reverence. “Anything you want. I will be yours to command.”

“Anything?” Dean asks, even as Cas’ fingers slide steadily lower, squeezing and kneading his ass in promise.

“Anything,” Cas confirms.

“Remember the good old days when you were hot for me and didn’t make dirty bargains?” Dean complains. “I miss that Cas. I’ve corrupted you. Created a monster.”

“Yes, I’ve learnt far too much,” Cas agrees seriously, gaze zeroing in with laser-like focus on where Dean’s a little under half hard in his boxers. And god, that shouldn’t be so hot, but Dean finds himself stiffening further under Cas’ attention.

Henry starts to whine and fidget, and that effectively kills the mood. Cas sits up, frowning a little, attention already diverted to the soon-to-be squalling infant.

Dean shifts back some more but he doesn’t let Cas up. Feeling an irrational jealousy, he demands, “Kiss me.”

It’s honestly beautiful how Cas melts, smiling against Dean’s mouth. “Okay.”

  
  


Most of the day is spent around the house. And once he’s finished off the leftover pie, Dean’s in a much more charitable mood. They watch a couple of westerns and Cas listens to Dean’s sporadic (and often irrelevant) commentary attentively. Henry naps through the late afternoon without a fuss, which leaves them all but free.

It’s nice. They lose interest in the movie and Cas talks about the classes he’s teaching and mentions Kevin’s plans for a graduate degree. He asks after Dean’s work, but it’s nothing novel, just covering a beat led by press releases.

Twenty five minutes into Henry’s nap, it occurs to Dean that the house is empty and the toddler’s asleep, so he shuts Cas up with a kiss. Cas covers Dean’s hand cupping his cheek, holding him in place, kissing back sweetly. Within minutes, he’s pushing Dean back onto the cushions, fingertips dragging at the meat of Dean’s thigh. Encouraged, Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ hips.

“Fuck me,” Dean urges and Cas makes a soft, breathless noise, mouth slipping against Dean’s. “It’s been so long, Cas. Just go.”

“Dean,” Cas grits out, sounding wrecked about the resignation he forces on himself. “We shouldn’t.”

Dean rocks his hips up, tightening his grip on Cas and Cas falters, shaking on his braced elbows. He’s thinking logistics. The minutes it would take to get upstairs and get undressed. The possibility of Henry waking up. How much time they’d have before Dean’s parents were due to return. It’s wonderful to watch Cas either way, so Dean decides to wait it out. But Cas just sighs and tucks himself against Dean, paralyzed by the indecision.

“Why do you do this to yourself, hmm?” Dean murmurs soothingly against Cas’ neck, into the stubble under his jaw. “It’s easy, don’t overthink it.”

Cas noses the neck of Dean’s shirt aside to suck a love bite into the freckled skin. “Want to take my time with you. Want every time to be unbearably good for you.”

 _Every time already is_ , Dean wants to protest. Cas kisses him again and it’s definitely a cool down kiss and Dean loves him enough that he’s stupid enough to go along with it. Until the idea knocks into him.

“Let me,” Dean says, sliding a hand between them to find Cas’ erection.

Cas’ protest dies before it reaches his lips. Dean’s already undone his fly and dipped under the waistband of Cas’ underwear, so he just sighs. They kiss softly and everything is fluid pleasure, floating in the afternoon sunlight, grounded only by touch. Cas eventually just fucks Dean’s hand long and slow in a prelude (hopefully) to the night show. It lasts scintillating minutes that stretch and linger until Cas comes on an upstroke with Dean’s fingers tripping over the sensitive head of his cock. It appears to take him by surprise, because his mouth is slack, his eyes wide open, a flood of black engulfing the blue, and Dean feels like he’s looking into the universe. Cas collapses against Dean, sweaty and spent and mumbling sweet nothings against Dean’s forehead.

It’s good. It feels right. So utterly satisfying. Cas deserves all of it. Everything. Every kiss. Every loving touch.

“What about you?” Cas asks meaningfully, shifting lower to press kisses along Dean’s neck like he doesn’t know how to stop. His hand starts to drift lower, but Dean catches it and shakes his head. It won’t take him long now, but they still don’t have enough time.

“I’m good until tonight. Keep your promise.”

  
  


John and Mary get home not long after they clean up but Sam and Jess don’t get home until nearly dinner. Something has come over his parents, because Mary looks like she’s keeping a secret while John is being almost pleasant to Cas. He even takes the seat to Cas’ left of his own volition. Dean should be suspicious, but relief and happiness win out. At least, for as long as it lasts.

Dinner almost passes without incident. In hindsight, Dean should’ve realized something was up when his father decided to forego dessert and offered to take Henry so Jess would be free to eat.

“Got any plans for something like this?” John asks suddenly, playing with Henry at the table.

Cas freezes, confused. “Sorry?”

“Kids,” John clarifies. “Starting a family.”

“You mean– me and Dean?” Cas exchanges a glance with Dean and Dean tries to help and fails. He’s in shock. Sam just looks amused, the little shit, and Jess appears to be trying for sympathy but lands somewhere closer to rabid curiosity. Dean turns to his mother, who just excuses herself to go get some more ice cream. _Traitor_. She could’ve warned them.

“You could adopt,” John suggests. He raises an eyebrow at Cas. “One of you could. Or, better yet, find a surrogate. Having kids ain’t a bad idea. You already live together.”

“Well, but–” Cas starts and goes nowhere, when the silence that follows stretches for too long. He turns to Dean again, but Dean’s still trying to pick his brain up from the floor.

“Unless you got other plans,” John says, mild and accusing.

“No, of course not,” Cas says indignantly. He straightens so rigidly that Dean’s back hurts just looking at him. “I love your son very much and I wish to spend the rest of my life with him… if he’ll have me.”

Dean’s pretty sure spontaneous combustion is a very imminent threat. All the blood rushes to his face and suddenly, his half empty plate is fascinating. It’s not fair to leave Cas defenseless, but Dean’s still in shock. Not that there had ever been a question about it, but they’d never even affirmed to each other that they were in for the long haul together, let alone in front of Dean’s entire traitorous family. He’s pretty sure Sam is giving him a nauseating look generally reserved for puppies. Jess and his mother are having a shameless, gleeful, whispered sidebar. His life is a sitcom. Awesome.

“Good. I’m just not seeing why you don’t want kids,” John says.

“John,” Mary cuts in.

“We haven’t talked about it, dad,” Dean says finally. Cas finds his hand under the table and squeezes it and Dean’s infinitely grateful for him. “Between the move and Cas’ degree, it’s not like we’ve had all the time in the world. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s not like we can just get married and start a family.”

“Now you got time, so talk about it,” John shrugs. Henry gives a happy gurgle in his hands and John gives Dean a rare, surprising smile. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Dean opens his mouth and finds he doesn’t have any idea how to protest this sneak attack. Cas rescues him by saying, “We will.”

Once John wanders back to the TV with Henry, Dean’s mother affords them an apologetic look. “Don’t listen to him. You know what’s best for yourselves.”

Dean’s about to get to his feet, taking Cas’ dish with his to the sink, but Sam stops him. “We’ll handle that. Why don’t you two relax? You’ve got stuff to talk about.”

“Bite me Sammy, you’re not gonna be an uncle just yet,” Dean growls, irritated that not only was this sprung on them, but that his family had decided to unanimously gang up on him and Cas.

Sam just rolls his eyes and starts to clear the table. “That’s not what i meant, jerk. You’ve been stretching yourselves thin helping us all out. Just spend some time together. Go to bed early or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Cas murmurs just for Dean’s ears, voice all gravel and jagged glass. And when Dean turns to him, Cas is smiling, sly and warm.

  
  


Dean is the one that dawdles on his way upstairs. Cas retires for the evening almost immediately, but Dean hangs around the kitchen for the better part of an hour. He’s suddenly hyper aware of everyone’s attention on them and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want them wondering if he and Cas are getting it on. He only leaves when Jess pointedly asks if he’d like to join her and Sam for a movie.

When he gets upstairs, Cas is already in bed, reading some massive tome, but he sets the book aside as soon as he sees Dean back the door shut.

“What the hell was that?” Dean shakes his head, sliding the deadbolt in place.

“I think your father was trying to give us his blessing,” Cas says, ever the reasonable one.

Dean just keeps shaking his head. He still can’t quite process it. “We are not buying his acceptance with babies. If all he sees in you is the opportunity for more grandkids, he– needs to take another look.”

“We don’t have to,” Cas says with a fond, amused smile. “But we don’t need to antagonize him, either.”

“Ugh.” Dean crawls up the bed to sprawl with his head in Cas’ lap. Cas’ fingers settle on his head, threading through his hair.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Cas reasons. “It’s better than the awkward silences. This is good. It’s a compromise. We just need to negotiate our way to the middle.”

“Can we just forget the whole thing?” Dean asks, sitting up enough to drag himself up Cas’ lap.

“Alright,” Cas agrees. “It’s forgotten. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks warily.

“I meant what I said,” Cas says, arms closing around Dean, hitching him closer for a kiss. “I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you.”

Heart seized with a joyful sort of terror, Dean kisses him back, turning one into three, into five. He starts to unbutton Cas’ stupidly sensible shirt, dizzy with want. “Yeah, I know. Now show me.”

Cas flips them over easily and makes short work of their clothes. His kisses are potent, intoxicating and heavy with heat, setting Dean’s skin on fire. He lavishes attention on Dean’s cock, lips sliding wet and warm over the head, tongue flattened against the slit. His slick, clever fingers prepare Dean with long strokes, pressing into flesh that gives way to his will. He finds Dean’s prostate and doggedly massages it, turning Dean into a gasping mess in his hands. Dean allows the teasing, riding the edge of an orgasm, enjoying the drawing and tightening of the sensations, crowding closer to the peak.

“One more time for me,” Cas says, voice all gravel, petting at the softness of Dean’s abdomen, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along Dean’s inner thigh. “You can do it once more. For me.”

Dean grits his teeth, clenching down on Cas’ fingers knuckle-deep within him, trying to suck him in, to swallow him, fuse them together. He’d weather much more for Cas if really pressed, but it’s been too long and he’s half blind with desperation. He’s definitely not above begging, “Fuck– you’re killing me, Cas. Need you. Get in me. Please– fuck me, come on, get it, come on.”

Arguably the best thing about Cas is he doesn’t need telling twice. He folds one of Dean’s legs up against his chest, simultaneously sliding a condom down his own cock. A few strokes to coat it with lubricant and he’s lining them together, pressing into Dean slowly.

“Don’t say I never kept my promises,” Cas huffs breathlessly, mouth closing in a slack circle around one of Dean’s nipples. He smirks up at Dean, clearly pleased with himself for giving Dean a taste of his own brand of cocksure flirting.

“Hey,” Dean grunts, letting Cas manhandle his legs so they’re slung over Cas’ shoulders. It feels strangely laden with meaning to ask this with Cas plugged hot and full inside of him, but he does it anyway. “Do you want kids? And– and a wife? The whole normal apple pie life?”

Cas cocks his head to the side, staring at Dean like he’s from a different planet. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and he licks his lips. “I want you. I want our lives together to be fulfilling. So I want whatever that means for you and for me.”

The position puts them at a little more distance than Dean would like for this conversation, but he hadn’t really thought it through, so he just ends up blinking stupidly, floored. Cas turns his head to press a kiss to Dean’s knee, watching Dean mull over the words. Then his hands are on the back of Dean’s thighs– and he’s drawing out slow and torturous, pushing in swift and sure.

Dean’s breath catches as he’s flung up the bed a few inches by the force of the thrust. Cas gives him a small, determined smile as the second thrust hits home, burying him balls-deep in Dean, hot and pulsing. He leans forward, picking up a relentless pace, the unfaltering beat of a metronome. He reaches between them to fist Dean’s cock, red and flushed at attention against his belly. Some of the more angled thrusts have Dean writhing half-mad, but even just the friction of fucking, the drag and pull of flesh is so pleasurable. There’s nowhere else Dean would rather be. No one else he’d rather be with, ever. That’s how Dean comes, joined with Cas so intimately, breaking apart under the adoration in his startling blue eyes.

Cas fucks him through it, until he’s oversensitive and whimpering senseless encouragements. Dean lets his legs slip to the sides and Cas flattens himself over Dean, trapping his spent cock between them. He kisses Dean, fucks into his mouth, dirty and hot as sin.

“Love you,” Dean finds himself slurring. “Yeah, you,” he confirms and Cas shudders around him, groaning against Dean’s neck as he orgasms.

They lie there together, staring at the ceiling, sweating and breathing in the aftermath.

Eventually Cas says, “I’d like it if we could exchange rings. If you want. At home, with your family as witnesses.”

Dean kisses him until they’re both breathless again and smiles against Cas’ mouth. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”


End file.
